


The Fading Star

by SpaceWall



Series: The Iron King [4]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen, Kings & Queens, Oaths & Vows, Politics, Union of Maedhros
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-05
Updated: 2021-02-05
Packaged: 2021-03-17 10:00:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,031
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29223591
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SpaceWall/pseuds/SpaceWall
Summary: Nimloth, Queen of Doriath, stands before the Kings of the Speaking People, and refuses to bow. Galadriel chooses her place.
Relationships: Beleg Cúthalion & Nimloth of Doriath, Galadriel | Artanis & Nimloth of Doriath
Series: The Iron King [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1669603
Comments: 6
Kudos: 46





	The Fading Star

**Author's Note:**

> CW/TW: mentions of war, battle, etc. (non-graphic), blood oath (somewhat graphic)

Hear the story of the Queen of Doriath, who was of a minor line and had no pretensions to the throne until it was thrust upon her. Her story was as all stories, seen as a single tile in a mosaic of possibilities by Námo, called Mandos, who knew and judged even when he tried not to. These days, he often tried not to. Then, as the Queen set her choices in stone, Vairë, the wife of Námo, set her ladies to the task of documenting them. This tale, which when completed strung across a wall in one of Vairë’s ceaselessly long and interwoven hallways, was woven in grey and green, in white, in brown and, during the final days of the Siege of Doriath, in red blood. Riding upon elven steeds, the Host of the Free Peoples had come at last, and washed away their foe’s forces that surrounded the halls of Menegroth. There, the tapestry of that battle had ended, and a new one had begun. Vairë’s hands were as graceful as ever as she set the scene.

Queen Nimloth of Doriath straightened her crown, and looked to Beleg, the chief of her Guard, for his opinion. The costume was not her own. The dress had been one of Lúthien’s, let out for Nimloth’s broader figure. There hadn’t been much time for dress-making, since Thingol had died and Melian had left them. But Nimloth’s own dresses had been far too humble for the company of the Noldor. So, she chose the banquet dress of Lúthien’s, a lush green with a pearl-encrusted bodice. The crown was one of Melian’s, a diamond and emerald tiara, which rested upon her brow. 

In the old days, Doriath had as much wealth as any kingdom of the Noldor, the wealth of earth and forests and anything they did not have, they could trade for. More than anything, they had been blessed with the wealth of peace. It was this wealth that they had lost, thirty years earlier, when Thingol’s pride had finally gotten the better of him, and Lúthien, fled home from the ruin of Himring in the last days of her life, had declared Nimloth her heir. 

These last thirty years had been the hardest in all Doriath’s history. A slow and brutal war which pushed them into the caves of Menegroth, followed by a siege they held at great cost until the kings and princes of the Noldor had come to liberate them. And now, Nimloth was to be called to account in the face of this terrible debt. 

Beleg, her right hand, had stood at her side since that first awful day. He was her guard and her advisor and, much of the time, her only real friend.

He nodded, decisively. “Come then, your majesty. Let’s put on a show.” 

And so he escorted her out of fading Menegroth and into the camps of the Great Alliance of Maedhros, where a great swath of what had once been forest – long cleared by the enemy – had been occupied by a vast city of tents. Elves and Men and dwarves all piled in together. At a gesture from Beleg, a Noldo came up to them. He was fair-skinned and dark of hair, with a bright light in his eyes that spoke to his past in Valinor.

“Prince Maglor,” Beleg greeted him, pointedly. He, alone of all living Doriathrim, knew the faces of the Lords of the Noldor. 

Maglor searched his face. “Beleg, I believe? Lúthien spoke highly of you.”

He hadn’t shown immediate deference to Nimloth, despite her rank, and she knew this boded ill for her odds.

At the Council Tent, Nimloth slipped pointedly past Maglor, to enter first. Behind her, Beleg stepped in and announced, “Queen Nimloth of Doriath, Pelinel. Heir of Lúthien.”

She cast her eyes around the room. To her surprise, they had not acquired a council table. Rather, there were a collection of small tables spread around the tent. At the farthest end of the tent sat a sparkling figure whose bright aura reminded her of Melian, but tenfold more powerful. Carefully, she made her way across to him and bowed, making a point to show that she could offer deference when it was owed. Then, carefully, she scanned the tables until she spotted red hair, tied in war-braids and topped by a tall bulb-shaped crown of gold and rubies and diamonds. The lightless –normal – eyes of the Blessed King of the Noldor were lined with dark paint and his lips painted burgundy. 

The Myth of Maedhros had only grown in Doriath since the Rebirth of Lúthien. They had always doubted his legend until the same had happened to their own Blessed Princess. But he received Nimloth’s respect for a more personal reason. Lúthien has died with his name, a last thanks for many good years lived, on her lips.

To him, Nimloth offered a nod of respect. Then, she let Maglor guide her to her seat. It was a stool of red velvet behind a finely carved wooden desk and she sat carefully as she could, spreading her skirts about her. Beleg stood back, standing just a pace behind her. There was a great comfort in his presence.

This meagre comfort could not negate the great tension in the room. Nimloth surveyed the competition. Eonwë sat back, looking bored. At the next table over sat a golden-haired ellon, eyes bright as Maglor’s were. He wore a crown of sapphires, and at his side sat a surprising and familiar face: Nimloth’s greatest competitor, Lady Galadriel. The deferential way she regarded him surely made this her father, Finarfin.

Then there was Maedhros, and at his side a golden-haired near-child who must have been his young son and co-king, Ereinion Gil-Galad. There in the corner was Círdan, and at his side another golden-haired child who was unknown to Nimloth. The boy had an oddly mannish figure. Then the men, an Easterling and one who she guessed would be a kinsman of some degree to Beren. Two dwarves, one red of hair and the other black, neither of them known to her as killers of Thingol.

Maglor assumed a position at Maedhros’s shoulder, looking at least as deadly as Beleg did, although he was pointedly unarmed. 

The Reborn King folded his hands on the table. His nails were painted black, and everyone watched him. There was a hypnotic smoothness to his motion that reminded Nimloth of Lúthien. Even in the last years of her life, she had commanded every room she walked into. 

“I will be blunt,” said Maedhros. Nimloth braced herself for the worst, but to her shock, he turned to Galadriel and Finarfin. “Artanis, I will not support your and Celeborn’s bid for the throne. Lúthien’s will is perfectly clear, and in Dior’s absence, I will not subvert her wishes.”

The High King of the Noldor, blessed by Námo, held great love in his heart for his last living cousin, but greater still was his love for Lúthien and Beren, who had raised their son at the side of his own. Their generosity had saved his life, and he could never pay them back for it now. 

Galadriel showed no anger. Instead, she rose to her feet and approached Nimloth. Like Maedhros, she was jewelled and made up as if the war had never touched her. From her neck dripped a strand of sapphires cut as teardrops. Her eyelids were dusted as if with gold. With deliberate care, she knelt at Nimloth’s feet, and bowed her head. 

Galadriel and Celeborn were what remained of her and Thingol’s family on these shores. And their lines were the elder. It was not a surprise to know that they had considered stealing Nimloth’s crown from her. It was a surprise that Maedhros had interfered on her behalf, and a surprise that Galadriel had listened. 

Nimloth stood, and, from her calf-holster she pulled a knife. Aside from Beleg, none of them were visibly armed, but all of them, save for him and Galadriel, seemed to start for weapons they were not carrying.

Galadriel closed her eyes. There was great strength in her willingness to submit, and Nimloth took it as the generous offer it was. But it was also a political gesture, and she had to respond in kind. That was the nature of these things.

Nimloth had nothing to give. No jewels or titles that did not match what Princess Galadriel already had. She could offer no power Galadriel did not already surpass. Save for one thing.

She drew the knife across her palm, drawing blood and a gasp from someone she thought must have been King Finarfin. The others would already know that Beleriand was a land of ancient and terrible magics. 

“Save your lord husband, I have no living kin on these shores. I offer you my blood. To be bound to me, as sisters in the eyes and service of our people.”

She extended the hilt of the knife, and met Galadriel’s glimmering eyes. Sitting back on her knees, Galadriel took the offered knife and dragged the clean edge across her flesh. The wounds were shallow, but they did not need to be deep. The bond they would create was deep enough. 

They did not join the bloodied hands. Rather, they each took in their bleeding hands the other’s uninjured hand, wounds pressed to unmarred flesh. 

“I offer you my blood,” said Galadriel, “to be bound as sisters before the eyes and in service of the free peoples of Beleriand.”

It was a key distinction. 

“So we are bound,” Nimloth intoned, consenting to the amended words. 

“So we are bound,” echoed Galadriel. 

There was in those ancient days a response to this kind of promise. For the bond was in service of the people, and it was for their eyes, not for the eyes of the Ainur or Eru. By the old ways, the bond would be broken when the last witness was dead.

“So they are bound,” Beleg said, as she had known he would. 

“So they are bound,” intoned Círdan.

Nimloth was prepared to draw away, accepting that they would be bound on the authority of two alone, but Galadriel did not release her hands. 

Her faith was rewarded, for Maglor spoke then, his voice as powerful as every story that had ever been told of it. “So they are bound.”

And then Maedhros, with self-possession and power, said the traditional final line. “And so they are bound, and in my lifetime keep their vow.” 

Galadriel released her, and they both stood, Galadriel towering over Nimloth. Yet in spite of this, for the first time, Nimloth did not feel powerless in the company of kings and lords and Ëonwë. How could she be alone? She had her sister at her side, and Beleg keeping watch, and King Maedhros of the Iron Spirit, Círdan the Warden of the Sea, and Maglor Horse-Lord observing her oath, following her traditions. 

She returned to her seat, and Galadriel stayed at her side, rendered imposing by her height. The knife lay exposed on the table, a testament to what they had done, the way they had bound themselves. Somehow Galadriel seemed calmer and more sure in this role than she had been at her father’s side. Though Nimloth did not know it, in as many words, Galadriel had been waiting for a very long time to choose her place, among all the many people she called kin. This was it, she now knew, and there was peace in that.

“Queen Nimloth,” said Maedhros, drawing focus cleanly back to him, “is Doriath with us, as we push North?”

The war would be over soon, one way or the other. “Doriath is with you, though I confess we have little to give but our lives.”

“None of us have anything to give but that.”

This tapestry was not one of Míriel’s, though she could have asked for the right to weave it, given her grandson's prominence. But this was not his story, not her story, and so for a moment, she stood back and, like so many before and after her, watched history unfold.

**Author's Note:**

> Pelinel, Nimloth’s epessë, is a rather unfortunate one meaning ‘fading star’. I suspect the people of Doriath felt this describes their situation aptly, but if you use it to insult their Queen (who has given everything for them, more than you know) (who has the favour of Lúthien, who they love), they will kill you. 
> 
> I love Nimloth, for reasons I can’t fully articulate. I just think she’s neat. So naturally, even without Dior, I wanted her to take her place as queen.


End file.
